


Something as Simple as a Scratch

by zarabithia



Category: Captain America (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: BDSM, Breathplay, Community: fanfic100, F/M, Kink, Sensation Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-24
Updated: 2011-11-24
Packaged: 2017-10-26 12:16:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/283022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zarabithia/pseuds/zarabithia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Winter Soldier and Black Widow have a while to go before they fully discover all their kinks. But they're working on it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something as Simple as a Scratch

**Author's Note:**

> Written for comradecourt for a tumblr meme that spiraled way beyond three sentences. Also fits fanfic100 prompt .054: Air.

"Today, I killed someone by holding their head under the water," the Winter Soldier says as he pulls her down to the bed, and despite all of her training, ice runs down Natasha's spine at the coldness of his tone.

But other parts warm to his touch - it has been too long since last he crawled into her window - and Natasha wriggles up to meet the feel of his metal touch slipping up her bare leg.

"No gun?" she asks; she is proud of the fact that her voice does not tremble with the want she feels as his fingers enter her.

"Ran out of bullets, killing his handlers. More of them than I estimated." He twists so that he can be above her, his face watching hers, and Natasha wonders if he noticed her earlier shudder and is looking for signs of continued weakness.

But bullets and guns have lost their ability to frighten her, and she merely takes the opportunity to push against his hand. The smile is fleeting, but she cannot think of any others who have seen it, other than herself. It is a rare treat, reserved only for her, and the thrill of that private pleasure makes her dig her fingers into the sheets out of frustration towards his slowness.

"Impatient, my Natalia," he scolds. It is the same reprimand he uses when they train, and Natalia wonders if the slowness is a form of wicked punishment for her perceived insubordination. "We will have to do something about that."

She is close enough to the edge that she almost doesn't care about the lapse on her behalf.

"For your touch? I am always impatient."

He doesn't reward her with one of his rare smiles this time, but he does add a second hand to his efforts. He uses the warm - _still human_ , the brief thought dashes through her mind before she can censor it - hand to pull her legs closer together.

It prevents her from wriggling, and gives him the upper hand. It puts him back into control. It forces her to have to wait for his metal fingers to find the right spots.

It's not the first time he's tempered her enthusiasm - _too much enthusiasm on the battle ground can get you killed_ , he says, which is the kind of stubborn fondness that seems as much at odds with the men they are serving as the accent on her soldier's tongue when he speaks her language.

As much as she might otherwise enjoy it, the restraining is frustrating, and part of Natasha wants to pick him up and toss him onto his back, the way she has managed to achieve a few times before in their training.

But another part of her cannot deny the thrill that runs through her as his human – no. As his _flesh_ presses against her flesh, nails digging in to make a claim. The nails are not as long as hers, and the pain is not as sharp as the pain she could cause in a similar situation, but it stings enough to allow Natasha to tip even closer to the edge.

With one hand fucking her and one hand holding her in place, her lover has no additional hands to spare to hold hers down. She takes advantage of that, and of the sloppiness he has shown in _forgetting_ to give any verbal orders - _sloppiness can kill you as quickly as too much enthusiasm_ \- to permit her fingers to express her frustration. She digs deeper into the sheets, curling her fingers into a fist as she balls the material in her hands, rejoicing in the complementary sting her nails provide as they dig into her palms. As in all things, his actions and hers enhance one another, even when it is something as simple as a scratch.

But although she allows the nails to move freely, her head remains still, always keeping his gaze. Though the bottom of her gown is in a puddle around her hips and the top leaves very little to the imagination, his gaze remains focused on her face. His sharp gaze seeks out the obedience written across her features, but also ensures that she is deriving pleasure from his methods.

His attention, whenever and however he may fuck her, is always sharply focused on her pleasure, as well as his own. That is not always a guarantee amongst all men. Sometimes, Natasha allows herself to wonder where he learned that - no matter how traitorous such a line of questioning may be.

It is not a _tender_ look, and perhaps nobody else would see the gentleness behind it - but Natasha understands, and his attention, wherever he may have learned it from, is enough to bring her to climax, when his metal fingers rub against her _just so._

The sting as she bites into her lip matches the ones in her palms and on her hip. She is not loud; they do not have the luxury to be. But the smile she gives him - if less rare than his own - is genuine.

His nails release her seconds after he removes his other hand from between her legs. Though he is no longer holding her in place, his flesh hand trails over the marks his nails have made, surveying the impressions he has given her.

And although it is his turn to find release, he does not speak for several minutes.

"Something is on your mind," she says finally. "Did you come to my bed to brood about it?"

"I watched you breathe," is his answer. "While my fingers were in you, while I was trying to give you pleasure... I couldn't stop thinking about the man I killed today. I watched him, too. His breaths. And they way the grew shorter and shorter, until there were no more."

For a moment, his hand stills and he sounds unsure. It throws her, the way nothing else has, because she is unaccustomed to hearing the most dangerous man she knows sound _uncertain._

She searches his face, and wonders if it is a test.

But ... no. The look of his face is one of a confession, and since the Winter Soldier would never need to _confess a kill_ , it does not take Natasha long to understand what he is trying to find the words to say.

"You want to recreate the difficulty he had in breathing," she guesses, "with us?"

His hand moves from her hip to her cheek and he cups her face. "No." And the certainty is back, as quickly as it ever disappeared. "I want _you_ to recreate the difficulty he had _with me._ "

That there are men who would relinquish control is not a surprise to Natasha. That _he_ is one of them _is._

"You would follow my command?" she asks, bringing one hand to rest at his neck. She mentally considers all the ways she could decrease his oxygen flow, without causing death.

His hesitation in answering her lasts only until she applies a small degree of pressure to the tense muscles in his neck. Abruptly, he rolls over onto his back, pulling her as he moves until she is straddling him.

She hasn't moved her hand, and she waits for the verbal confirmation before she continues.

"If the teacher is any good, sooner or later, the student must take the lead," is his reply. "Show me what you can do, Widow."

Natasha recognizes it as the challenge that it is, and as one she is more than ready to accept.


End file.
